


The Lap Demon

by Dusty



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Age Play, Age play is super mild, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic Discipline, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethereal age play that is, Fluff, I researched ageplay for you you cowards, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Angst, Non-Sexual Age Play, Probably some tags I should include that I don't know about, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soulmates, Subspace, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), a little bit of sex, mild spanking, so very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty/pseuds/Dusty
Summary: Crowley doesn't understand what he needs from Aziraphale. He can only act instinctively. Good thing Aziraphale has recently gained some insight into such behaviour, with the help of Madame Tracy.





	The Lap Demon

Crowley liked to lurk. It was his thing. Especially when he wasn’t feeling ever so demonic. As long as he’d had a good lurk, he felt that by the end of the day he wasn’t a complete failure as a demon. 

He particularly enjoyed lurking in Aziraphale’s bookshop. The place seemed to curiously expand every year, so there was always a new section to explore. Or more to the point, more shelves from behind which to spy on his angel. 

Aziraphale knew he was being watched. He’d turn and give Crowley a look sometimes, amused at the demon’s choice of cookery books or mechanics manuals in which to loiter. Then he’d turn back to whatever was keeping him busy, trusting that Crowley wasn’t mistreating the books or getting droplets of wine on the parquet flooring. 

Crowley loved his angel, and he was okay with that. He was okay with it because this angel was just that bit mutinous, just that bit wilful, and just that bit naughty. And yet the sun still shone on this brilliant, courageous being. The demon had seen every kind of behaviour in his time; the good, the bad, the criminal, the abominable. Aziraphale had as much malicious intent as a four year old trying to sneak cake from the kitchen before dinner. But he could be manipulative, deceitful, and indulgent. Crowley adored it. 

The rational part of him told him it was logical that he would love a recalcitrant angel. He found it harder to reconcile why the softness and the kindness appealed to him so much, though he supposed that those were things he had always struggled to get to, and after all, those qualities had revealed a variety of pleasant diversions in the workplace. The workplace being this planet.

The two of them shared an appreciation for the world around them - a mutual respect for the delights and pleasures of life on earth as a sanctuary from the tedious hypocrisy of their head offices. And now it was all theirs. 

Crowley felt he should feel like a giant among men; the rebel who saved the world, the demon who humiliated Hell, the fallen fiend who breathed fire at the archangels. But there he was, daily, finding a new selection of books to hide behind. 

And so to the irrational part of him, which was feeling increasingly like a fuzzy kind of demonic possession. It was something else, something fiery, something confusing. And this part of him sprung to life in a way that surprised him… in a way that should contradict his love for the angel. 

This occurred on the occasions that Aziraphale stopped being quite so soft. It meant Crowley had done something the angel didn’t approve of, or, more often than not, something that wasn’t good for Crowley. No one had ever cared about what wasn’t good for Crowley before, so that was a most peculiar feeling, but it was also tied up in tingling shame and an overwhelming feeling of smallness. 

Aziraphale’s tone and body language became entirely _parental_. Crowley knew he should hate this, detest it. He knew he had mummy issues, but he was a _rebel_ , and all authority was a load of pustulant mangled bollocks. He also knew that if he said the words ‘pustulant mangled bollocks’ in relation to authority, Aziraphale would give him that look - the look that made his lower half go all wobbly. If the angel proceeded to tell him off, or even warn him about being sanctioned, he felt neither insulted or patronised. He wanted to throw himself at Aziraphale’s feet, come what may. 

He tried not to think about it, but when he did, it was in shapes and colours rather than words. It was therefore very difficult to communicate any of this to Aziraphale, and it really wasn’t sure if he should. He wasn’t sure if what he wanted was wrong in a way the angel simply wouldn’t abide. Aziraphale had confided in him a fairly standard sexual fantasy, which they had enjoyed playing out. But for Crowley, what he wanted or needed seemed to extend far beyond antics usually reserved for the bedroom. If he tried to rationalise it, he just ended up feeling smaller, ashamed, and oddly warm.

He knew it was wrong, but there was only one course of action that he could see. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice that spoke of agreement, clarification, responsibility, and consent. But what Crowley needed to do was break all of those things and see if he would still have an angel at the end of it. It was an overpowering impulse, akin to the sensation of being pleasantly drunk and sliding into something a little wicked, but without the option of sobering-up. 

He therefore decided he would be _naughty_ , and hoped that his angel would catch him, stop him, and forgive him. 

* * *

The first test was simply to see if he could bring out The Parent at will. It meant being cheeky, and low-key bad. He might even get a smack on the thigh. He liked that. It felt divine. He found this especially odd given he had experienced violence on a spectrum across six millennia and definitely never enjoyed that. But whatever Aziraphale did to him was never violent. It was something else.

He had to create the right conditions. The opportunity arose when he was tipsy. They had enjoyed two or three bottles of red together when Aziraphale had said that it was enough, and that he was going to sober up and get things ready for another day of almost selling books. He cleared himself of intoxication and was looking at Crowley expectantly. 

The demon smiled cheekily, and without taking his eyes off Aziraphale, reached for a new bottle. The cork popped out in a little miracle, and Crowley started to pour the wine into his glass.

‘Crowley, no...’ warned the angel, fighting against the twitching upper corner of his mouth. 

‘Yes, mother?’ cooed Crowley. Aziraphale took the hint and pulled the bottle out of his hands, restoring the cork and wine that had splashed into the demon’s glass back to form an unopened bottle.

Crowley pouted. The angel took his hand and slapped the back of it sharply. 

‘Sober up, or you'll get another one,’ said Aziraphale calmly.

The gaze from Crowley was half coy, half dare, as he sat still in pure defiance. It soon earned him a hard smack on the other hand. It hurt, and he quickly sobered up, aware there was already too much fogginess flooding his body. He looked up at the angel with his best repentant expression.

‘Sorry, angel,’ he intoned.

Aziraphale peered at him, and gently rubbed the back of the most recently assaulted hand. ‘We’ve had a lovely day,’ he said sternly. ‘You’re not to spoil it.’ With a pointed look, he went off to the kitchen to make his cocoa, leaving Crowley to feel like he’d fallen into a whirlpool of bliss.

* * *

He felt like he was burning from the inside out. He was sure Aziraphale could tell. 

Next on Crowley’s agenda was to do something he knew would make the angel genuinely cross, instead of just playfully cross. The only difficulty was that Crowley had over 6000 years of experience being a wicked demon, so for him to suddenly break out into obvious misdeeds when Aziraphale knows full well he would be sneakier than that wouldn’t make sense. He realised it had to something the angel didn’t witness, and something he confessed to. 

He swaggered into the shop in the evening after closing time, snapping his fingers to bend the doors to his will, and was greeted with a withering stare. The angel had already told him he found this to be unnecessarily theatrical, especially given Crowley had his own keys. He was at his desk looking through the new releases catalogue, his reading glasses on his nose. 

_Headmaster’s office_ , thought Crowley, feeling extra rebellious by keeping his shades on, and making his way to standing in front of the unimpressed angel. 

‘Hi,’ he said, his voice somewhat dry. 

‘What is it?’ came the wary question, the glare over the top of the glasses like a searchlight of sunshine.

‘Oh, nothing,’ lied Crowley. ‘Except I…’ he cleared his throat. The glare did not waiver as he continued. ‘I had a small accident driving through Wood Green. I ran over a child’s bicycle - didn’t see it, and immediately drove back and fixed it of course, but thought I should let you know about the stray miracle, just if anyone asks.’

Aziraphale stood and slowly removed Crowley’s sunglasses, forcing eye contact. ‘How fast were you going?’ he asked evenly.

Crowley knew this would be a good time to wriggle a little bit, but it came ever so naturally anyway that he didn’t have to think about it. His heart thundered. He squirmed. It was like flying. 

‘I wasn’t speeding that much, I promise,’ he said feebly. ‘It was only about 80.’

‘80!’ Aziraphale questioned sharply. 'In a residential area?' He glowered at the demon. 

Crowley quickly hid his hands behind his back, indicating clearly that he knew he would likely be smacked. The angel noticed, and made no move to do so. Instead, he regarded Crowley intently. ‘ _Anthony_ ,’ he said dangerously, and Crowley shivered. ‘You are forbidden to drive.’

Crowley looked at him in surprise. ‘What, ever?’

‘Until I say so. You’re still being reckless. We can review it later but for now, no Bentley.’

Crowley swallowed. He started to feel a strange chill around his shoulders. 

Aziraphale stepped closer to him, which helped, and spoke softly. ‘I do appreciate you telling me, though I suspect it was only because it might get back to me anyway.’

Crowley shrugged. He felt like he was getting shorter by a millimetre a moment, and although he wasn’t completely sure that getting a slap was out of the question, he sensed his body was leaning into the angel rather than away. 

Aziraphale still looked cross, but he simply extended a warm hand and squeezed Crowley’s upper arm. ‘I want you to go and make us both some cocoa,’ he said, in a tone which indicated disobedience was unthinkable. 

Crowley therefore obediently skulked off to the kitchen to push various sundries around without the assistance of miracles, as was forbidden in Aziraphale’s kitchen. 

The angel, however, did mutter a miracle - a little sound cloak. It was time to call Madame Tracy.

* * *

_‘He’s tired of hiding. He’s exhausted. He’s found someone with whom he can be entirely authentic. There is nowhere between heaven and earth, and I guess hell, where he can do that, except with you. Where else could he belong?’_

Aziraphale couldn’t get Madame Tracy’s words out his head. They haunted him. He’d been thinking about all the silly sex games he and Crowley could play together. For him, a creature of _too many thoughts_ , something mindless was gloriously appealing. His poor, troubled demon on the other hand was craving a depth of intimacy Aziraphale didn’t even associate with sex, if he was honest. Their lovemaking was pleasurable and yes - definitely connective. But it was one of the rare times the angel got to distract his body from his mind, along with fine wining and dining.

It was fascinating though. _Age play_ , the good madame had called it. Aziraphale had felt himself playing the part instinctively, before sensing that the demon was perhaps already lost in a vulnerable space, and required more from Aziraphale just now. His time within the courtesan’s body had given him a certain amount of insight into such play, headspaces, discipline, vulnerability, and being a caregiver to someone ranging from very little to a more middle or teen sort of age. He’d chosen not to peek at it - it was none of his business, but now that door was wide open.

It had confused him at first - ethereal beings did not experience a childhood, so to speak. But perhaps that was part of the problem. _His spirit before he fell_ , whispered Aziraphale, sadly. It would explain the extra spells of moodiness and defiance, which he’d mostly found endearing, but was curious as to why Crowley was acting that way without any conversation or agreement.

Madame Tracy had explained to him that he might have slipped into a younger headspace as a result of the world changing so dramatically, and that perhaps he now feared that the one thing that anchored him in existence at all would abandon him if he admitted to his desires or needs. 

Such an insightful woman, thought Aziraphale, as it dawned on him that Crowley, not the most eloquent at the best of times, would struggle all the more to find words while in that headspace.

Nonetheless, words needed to be had.

* * *

The bookshop felt still that morning, with sunlight filtering in through the windows and gentle hubbub outside on the street. Aziraphale knew Crowley was somewhere in the books. He could hear the rustling of pages. And judging from the direction of that rustling, the demon was in the rare books section.

‘I hope for your sake you’ve remembered to put on clean gloves,’ called the angel. 

Silence. Aziraphale didn’t want to be cross but it really was one of his main rules, and Crowley knew that. Pushing his limits or not, he wasn’t going to stand for it. 

He waited a moment, and eventually heard the sound of a large page being cautiously turned. Immediately after that, there was a snigger. 

Aziraphale tried to steal himself and walked as quietly as possible to where he knew the blasted demon would be. Sure enough, he was sitting cross legged on the floor with a first edition of the Kama Sutra in his lap, no gloves, a takeaway cup of coffee next to him on the floor without a lid, and on the open page, an explicit illustration of a creative sexual position that had no doubt invited the snigger. 

‘Anthony!’ admonished Aziraphale, in a raised voice that made Crowley genuinely jump out of his skin. ‘Put that book back right away.’

Crowley immediately did as he was told, but as he leaned over to replace the book on the shelf, his foot knocked over the cup of coffee. The demon gasped - he hadn’t meant to do it, though he supposed it was inevitable. Aziraphale waved his hand in exasperation and the coffee vanished before it could cause any harm. He then stood over his _wide-eyed boy_ , every bit the _schoolmaster_. 

‘Stand up,’ he ordered, holding out his hand to help the demon to his feet. Crowley wanted to obey but felt himself shrink backwards. 

The angel was clenching his jaw. ‘Now, Anthony!’ he said, his eyes flashing a warning.

The awkward black shape on the floor retracted further just as Aziraphale reached for him, and in the blink of an eye, became a coil of snake. It deftly slithered at speed around the angel’s legs and found another aisle to hide in. 

‘Crowley!’ shouted Aziraphale crossly. ‘You know you are not to change form mid-discussion.’ He followed what he assumed was the natural path for a frightened snake, and sure enough, a little black head was poking out of the music history section. He was hissing at Aziraphale, the forked tongue waggling away.

It melted the angel’s heart. Aziraphale felt himself calm down. He spoke very carefully.

‘Crowley, I want you to transform back so we can talk about this. You’re in trouble, but you’ll make it worse for yourself if you don’t do as you’re told.’

Another little hiss. The snake recoiled minutely, before looking up at the angel as if pleading. Another blink of an eye, and Crowley was there, lying on his belly, right next to Queen: The Definitive Biography. He was still looking up at Aziraphale beseechingly, bottom lip _very nearly_ wobbling. 

“I’m sssorry, I’m sssorry,’ he whimpered, starting to get up from the floor and onto all fours, rather cat-like, so the angel thought. 

Aziraphale sighed heavily, then leaned down and caught Crowley by the belt at the back of his jeans and dragged him forward until he was at the angel’s feet. The angel then landed three swats on the seat of the demon’s jeans. It was more of a statement than a punishment, and before Crowley knew it he’d been pulled up to standing by the elbow and was being led to the back room. The demon was breathless and tingling all over. 

‘We need to have a little chat,’ said Aziraphale, which took the tingling up a notch. 

He guided Crowley into a chair, and stood in front of him with arms folded, looking down at his pitiful demon. 

‘I know you’ve been acting out,’ said Aziraphale.

‘Pftt,’ said Crowley, folding his own arms and looking at the floor, every bit the sullen teenager. ‘Whatever.’

‘Crowley, this is important,’ said the angel firmly. ‘More to the point, I think I know why this is happening.’

Crowley’s eye line flitted to the angel’s, and back to the floor again. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. ‘I want you to know it’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s all too easy for us to fall into this game without ever talking about it. But we must. So I’m going to ask you some questions.’

Crowley trembled, quite involuntarily, then slunk off the chair, a snake again. He shot for the door. 

‘Come back here right now!’ It was a stupefying command. The snake shrank into a tight coil, face hidden, but stayed put. 

Aziraphale glared at the incorrigible reptile. ‘You can stay in that form if you need to, if it’s easier, but we need to have this conversation. If you leave now, you and I will fall out.’ 

The snake didn’t move. The now diminutive demon pushed his head through his folds of snake to regard Aziraphale. 

They looked at each other. Could snakes pout? Aziraphale had often wondered but now he was sure that this particular snake was pouting. He sat down in the chair and patted his lap. ‘Come on,’ he said. Crowley obediently slipped into the angel’s lap, curling up as close as he could, but kept his face nudged under Aziraphale’s belly and away from his gaze, clamping the slitted eyes shut.

Aziraphale petted him sweetly. ‘Okay, you,’ he began. ‘I want you to listen to what I learned in my time as an accidental courtesan. Then I want you to be very brave and, _as Crowley_ , tell me what you need. But firstly I want you to know that there is nothing you could do that would make me abandon you, save causing terrible harm to the world and its people, and I do not believe you are capable of that. But if you are feeling mischievous, believe me, _Anthony_ , I am more than capable of managing that, and you. In fact, I think I’m looking forward to it. But you and I are not going to leave this room until we’ve agreed some parameters. Understood?’

The snake curled up closer and gave a mild hiss, gently rubbing the angel’s belly with his nose. 

‘Then let us begin.’

* * *

Crowley put his feet up on the desk and grinned. This was freedom. He’d been out in the forbidden Bentley, collecting his favourite wines from the wholesaler. The 16 crates were piled up in the arts and crafts section, blocking all access to the books on knitting. He’d drawn a penis in the margin of Aziraphale’s diary, for every day of the week, for the month of July. 

He knew he was going to get a spanking, as those were the rules. Aziraphale would turn him over his knee for doing all of that. And then the angel would love him in a way that until just a few days ago, he’d never thought possible. He would be held tightly yet soothingly, communicating he’d never be let go and would never be allowed to escape, for his own safety, and they would both become lost in that intensity. He would writhe softly in his angel’s arms, coming with a startled cry, and Aziraphale would comfort him, enveloping him completely until he himself shuddered on top of him. The angel’s pleasured gasps brought tears to the demon’s eyes. And they would tremble and murmur together until peace swelled in for the night. 

* * *

‘Tell me,’ Aziraphale would whisper. ‘Where do you belong?’

‘Your lap,’ the demon would answer, so very softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow up: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792765


End file.
